


A Document in Madness

by Measured_Words



Category: Hamlet - Shakespeare
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Dreams, Gen, Ghosts, Horror, Incestuous UST, Lovecraftian, Poison, Siblings, Yuletide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-21
Updated: 2011-12-21
Packaged: 2017-10-27 16:00:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/297586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Measured_Words/pseuds/Measured_Words
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Laertes knows what is rotten in the state of Denmark.  He'd really rather not return, but finds himself summoned home on the the death of the king.j</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Document in Madness

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Gileonnen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gileonnen/gifts).



> Happy Yuletide! I saw this prompt in the letters list and was immediately searching the house for the inevitable 'Complete Works of Shakespeare' that every house collects! Hamlet already has a pretty good horror base to start with, so it was pretty easy to come up with ideas. I wanted to stay away from Hamlet himself, and decided to run with Laertes (already his parallel in so many ways). I don't know if this is quite what you were looking for, but I hope you enjoy it :D
> 
> Thanks to my betas - Carmarthen, Doranwen and Nary! And thanks always to #yuletide and the hard-working hippos!

I received today a letter that brought me no little distress, and yet also some measure of relief. The King of Denmark, King Hamlet, is dead. His brother Claudius takes the throne, and I am to come home.

I know not if Claudius shares his dead brother’s proclivities, or what the old witch, Queen Gertrude will do, but I cannot imagine she will let slip the reins of power so easily. And what is one brother or the other to her kind?

I am called home – would that I could remain in this Parisian idyll I have created, in this dream of another life. Always have I known I must return home to face all I have left behind: family heritage and obligations, and the terrors that come with all. Would that winter clutched us still to her icy bosom, yet I must find a ship tomorrow.

\- . - . - . - . - . - . - . - . - . - .

The journey weighs on my soul. The closer I come to the land of my forebears, the more they stir in me – strange sensations, alien impulses and thoughts. I try to think of the gravity that awaits me there – the solemn occasion for which I am summoned, to dwell on death. But the subject is too close, and I cannot keep my thoughts from the other players in the old king’s drama. I think of his queen, and my father, and Ophelia slips unbidden into my mind as well. I cannot avoid her, as I cannot give any cause for doing so that she could comprehend. I have only unvoiceable thoughts and jealousies.

Instead, I must think on those conspirators with dark powers, witting and unwitting. I try to turn my thoughts to Hamlet the son. Has he come into whatever dark powers his father and mother conjured for him? Does he know aught of it? Or have the events not yet passed that should awaken them in him? And myself? Have we avoided this fabricated fate? And if he does not know, is he as plagued as I by strange thoughts and visions? Or was my own condition brought on by early accidental contact with those unspeakable powers?

I remember clearly the scene. I had sought refuge in my father’s study from the rough attentions of other relatives at the time of my mother’s death. Ophelia then was but newly squawking in our nurse’s arms. No one would speak to me then of what had transpired – how I should find myself saddled with a sister instead of a mother. Even now my mother is taboo, though I can still recollect her face. To me she seemed calm, and full of wisdom. I cannot but question now what all she might have known, how deeply embroiled she was, how close in the Queen’s confidence. Could it be that she knew and even chose her path? It could, and I will never know. I would like to think her innocent, but my instincts protest it.

At the time I could imagine no ill of her, other than that she had abandoned me. Children are such selfish creatures. I wished to hide, and to that end I secured myself in my father’s study. I could not make sense of the things I found there. Even now I dare not long contemplate their mysteries. The visions I saw when I opened such a book, the voices that called when I dared touch certain arcane objects collected in that cabinet of unspeakable curiosities – these were horrors beyond my years, and even beyond the ken of any man. My knowledge of these unearthly wonders plagues me still. I hope the others – my sweet sister, and even prince Hamlet, have been spared.

\- . - . - . - . - . - . - . - . - . - .

I have arrived in Elsinore too late for the funeral proper. It took place two days before, and I must admit relief. I have now heard more of the cause of death, and can only wonder at some of the whisperings. They say he was killed by a snake – but who has heard of such a thing in Denmark? Even in spring it is no climate for adders, let alone a serpent of sufficient venom to boil the blood of a creature such as the old king. There is some metaphor here, should I chose to tease it out, but I do not. I will stay only as long as I must.

\- . - . - . - . - . - . - . - . - . - .

I dreamed of my sister last night. I feared this. My return has cheered her, and I cannot explain my reservations toward her. For now she thinks me tired from travel and weighted down by the king’s passing, as should be any dutiful subject. I smile and try to answer her questions about Paris and my studies. I answer what I can, but there is much of my life that does not make fit tales for young girls, even were they not also sisters. I see my father smile and nod with pride and satisfaction at my evasions as much as my elaborations, and it causes me wonder. What plans rest in his brain for me? What designs does he look to execute now that his partner lies dead? Or could scheming to that end explain the queen’s new affections? Already I have heard whispered allegations of her impropriety. Do I have some place in his plots – perhaps to take his place, or play his role to the old king’s son?

I have not courted Hamlet’s affections as I might have. He fills me with unease and unlooked-for emotion, and I do not, as a rule, seek his company. Of course we are known to each other, but he keeps to his circle of friends from Wittenberg. I leave him to them, and wonder at who might be drawn to one such as him, as I question the motives of those who seek my own company. Hamlet is at least easy to avoid, for he is occupied with the duties of mourning.

\- . - . - . - . - . - . - . - . - . - .

Oh distressing nights, that bring me no peace in these troubling times! I am relieved at the least that I am not the sole sufferer. For myself it is dreams that drive my mind from rest – asleep I cannot guard my thoughts from unnatural urges and lurid awful thoughts. They play out instead as visions, and it shames me to confess what satisfaction they bring my somnambulant self. Whispers I hear of ghosts and apparitions from the guards who walk the walls at night suggest that I suffer from a madness that grips all of Elsinore.

\- . - . - . - . - . - . - . - . - . - .

My father has marked my restlessness. I tell him that it simply marks my desire to return to my studies in Paris, but the truth is I seek only to flee from this place. I’m sure it must be natural for a father to take interest in the appetites of his progeny, but I cannot think he means well by it. Let him form what impression he likes. I will not admit myself to him! I will not have him grin lasciviously at my discomfort.

Impropriety flourishes all about me, and my traitorous thoughts seek allies. The queen flirts openly with her husband’s successor, and I think she means to ensnare him too, and safeguard her position, her powers, and whatever her plans may be. Does she tempt him with more than words of affection? With longing glances and stolen caresses? I can see it in my mind all too clearly. She too holds a perverse fascination for my imagination. But is there some other temptation? Power along with pleasure? I can conceive a hundred conspiracies that would explain the acts I see unfolding here, and I want no part in any of them.

\- . - . - . - . - . - . - . - . - . - .

I have seen it now. I thought to relieve my mind of distressing dreams and visions, and found myself outside on the battlements. I gazed up at the stars, knowing that beyond them lies the source of my troubles. Their glittering seemed like innumerable eyes glaring down in baleful indifference, or one eye refracted through myriad unknowable angles. I felt dizzy then, and through my hazy vision their light seemed to coalesce into a terrible form – the old king. I tried desperately to shake the phantom from my senses, telling myself that my sleeplessness only had made me vulnerable to all sorts of wild imaginings. This served me not, as I saw him still and knew I was not alone – the guards who walked their patrols had scattered before this apparition with cries of horror. I do not think they knew I was there.

This ghost, if so it was, was garbed for war in the old king’s armour. It seemed to struggle to contain whatever was within, bulging in unnatural ways. What little of him was not so sheathed writhed with shadows, and I could not stand to look long at his face. The whole sight aroused feelings of awe in my breast, and I was transfixed. The stars stretched out behind him and unearthly mist obscured the landscape – in that moment I could almost grasp the powers he had dabbled with in life and that grip him now in whatever lies beyond. He raised a hoary finger to me, and I might have taken leave of all my sense then had not an errant cloud passed between the apparition and the vistas beyond, breaking their power. The terrible mouth moved as though to speak, but this motion caused the whole to dissolve or be dispelled.

I felt weak for some moments. I have returned to my chambers now, but I do not think I will sleep.

\- . - . - . - . - . - . - . - . - . - .

Today the king announced that plans for his marriage to his dead brother’s queen will proceed. I am given to understand that they have been consulting with some lawyers on the matter, and despite protest have found some wording to exploit to their advantage. It may perhaps be legal, but the prospect revolts me for numerous reasons.

I saw Prince Hamlet this morning, and my sister – she looked to me to be trying to calm him. I can imagine that if I am not keen on this arrangement, then he must be furiously upset. What has his mother told him? I confess that seeing Ophelia attend so to him also awoke feelings of great trepidation, and jealousy. She tended to him with such great kindness and affection that it was difficult not to perceive a deep intimacy there that can only be unwholesome. If I can find the nerve to do so I must speak to her of this. I am beset with feelings of inevitability and revulsion in all matters, and do not think myself fit for any company. Yet there is to be another feast tonight that I must attend and face again with false good cheer.

\- . - . - . - . - . - . - . - . - . - .

Today the queen called me for an audience. My father was in attendance also, and though he held his tongue well enough while she spoke to me he lectured me thoroughly afterwards. I was surprised not to see the king, but perhaps he has not as yet been fully initiated in to their ways. If he has not, I think he will be soon, and then, pity Denmark!

She asked me many probing questions, seeming innocent at first but with an intent that was clear to me. At first she inquired after my studies – what topics I found of interest, who were my tutors and instructors in such and such subjects. Likewise she inquired about my friends in Paris and how I found the city, what entertainments it offered, and so on. From there she pressed me further about when I might be through with all of this, speaking as though she thought this time away was merely an impulse of youth, and not a grander commitment to rid myself of the influence of this place. She told me she hoped I would find this experience abroad invigorating, that also it might serve me well when I returned here to take up office. The implication I read was that she wished in time for me to take my father’s place, and made some hints as to what all that might entail.

She asked if I was a religious man, as some of my tutors are Jesuits and France a strong Catholic nation, and whether this gave me any trouble. Denmark, she told me, is an older state, and though Christian on the surface none can deny that older paths are still followed. Peasants still keep old holy days, or pray to older gods, and those who rule must understand and respect that. These should have been strange comments from the lips of a Christian queen, but I know the truth of her. It was difficult, in that conversation, not to think of what I have seen her do or chants I have heard her whisper.

When I first came into my manhood is when I first felt the stirring of some older call in my blood. I had been plagued by nightmares since I first encountered their objects in my father’s study, but to that point I had been blessed, and they passed with the night and I could never remember them. At this time, I began to remember snippets – never yet more than my mind could handle, but impressions of beings and agendas beyond the horizons of sanity. I often woke from these night terrors far from my own chambers – Ophelia would tease me for this, for sometimes she would see me pass by her room and stand shaking in the doorway for some time before passing on. She made a game of speaking to me, thinking my nonsensical answers all quite amusing. At the least, she assented when I begged her to tell no one.

I awoke from one of these rambles at the margins of a chamber I did not recognize. It lies beneath the palace, and though I have taken pains never to seek it purposefully I am sure I could find it still with distressing ease. I am sure the voices are what woke me. I did not recognize the tongue, but I responded to it nonetheless. My blood pulsed with it. Three robed figures stood before a stone idol that I at once recognized as one of the figures from the tomes I had seen in my youth. They chanted in turn, and in turn I recognized the voices of King Hamlet, Queen Gertrude, and my father. I think they made some invocation, for as they called the idol seemed to move of its own accord and to discharge from its maw some fluid with which they then blessed or anointed themselves. I think now that they had made it some offering – I shudder to think what – and closed their prayer with blood so blessed. In another day the king was off to war, taking my father with him, and they won a great victory against the Swedes. This was credited in part to a great storm that rose, and the roiling waves that swelled to devour the enemy ships, but I think they and their crews went to feed some other hunger.

I have never spoken of this to anyone. I dare not admit it. My father terrifies me. The queen too, as did the old king. They will bring Claudius into this now, and in time Prince Hamlet, and they look for me too, and perhaps Ophelia. There is something in us – something in our blood that comes from no earthly parent, and it draws us towards this madness. There was part of me that witnessed this scene, the part that lived them in half forgotten dreams, and creeps now more and more into my waking thoughts, that was seized by an ecstasy to see the statue move, to hear their chant. That was when I first thought of leaving here, as I feared what I might become, or do. I begged to travel, to visit other relatives, finally to take my studies as far abroad as I could convincingly go.

My father told me my answers to the queen were too cool, that he wished to build for me a future here but I must help myself to that end. He prattled on with his advice as to how I should act, how I should spend more time with my sister to cheer her before I go, how I might ingratiate myself with young Hamlet not directly but through his friends, and so on. I listened dutifully but all I could think of was escape.

\- . - . - . - . - . - . - . - . - . - .

I think it must be tonight. The marriage comes tomorrow, and beforehand some other binding rite. I could not sleep, and sought to calm my mind in the usual way. I found Ophelia up from bed as well – she claimed she could not rest, and chided me for old restless habits. She was not clothed but in a dressing gown and shift, but I could not persuade her to return to her chambers. She spoke of bad dreams, and in truth while I did pity her, knowing something of the matter, I think it more than brotherly concern that had me assent to walk with her instead, arm in arm with her slight body pressed comfortably against mine. I think she thought me too tired for conversation, and I complained of a headache. This was not far from the truth, as the blood pulsed so strongly in my veins that I could feel each beat in every extremity. She lay the blame for our common malaise on the weather, as there was the threat of a storm.

In time we found we were not alone in our midnight wanderings, and spied a dark form stalking solitary through the dim hallways of Elsinore. Ophelia recognized him first – Prince Hamlet. She looked upon him with such tenderness and pity that a fierce jealousy gripped me. She seemed to know all of his troubles – his grief and upset not only at his father’s sudden and strange passing, but the speed of his mother’s remarriage. I forced her to confess that they have shown each other favour, and she thinks he is quite fond of her, and that she is of him she could not have hidden if she tried. I felt ill at this revelation, as though there might have been anything I could do in my self-imposed exile to keep them apart. I can only tell her that it is wrong, and not why – I do not dare. I cannot reconcile myself to it, and can think of no better solution than to flee.

I was curt with her, and returned her to her rooms, where I informed her that I must leave soon, as soon as possible. I think all considered I conducted myself very well, though she might not agree, and I must soothe her with prettier speeches when I have more of my wits. I cannot sleep still – that which roused us all three still calls to me. I only hope the others will not answer.

\- . - . - . - . - . - . - . - . - . - .

Finally I am free. I write this as the ship clears its way into the North Sea, bound southward to return me to France. Such relief! My sister promises to write, and I hope I can bear her letters with more grace than her presence. I gave her what advice seemed appropriate, but I think she will not take it. My father was all smiles for her sake, but I know he is displeased to see me go. I will now return my thoughts to more pleasant diversions, and leave all this mess beyond me, and live the happy dream that I may yet be free of it all.

\- . - . - . - . - . - . - . - . - . - .

Oh Peace! There is to be none for me! I thought flight from Denmark would save me from madness, but it seeks me out even here, and I know I shall not be done with this until it all ends in blood. I returned to my lodgings this evening beset with a feeling of unease, and I could take no diversion in my usual haunts. The old restlessness descended on me again, despite my distance, and a fear built in me then that I should never be free. I did not trust myself alone on the streets, knowing not where I might end up or what I might do, and instead paced my chambers – waiting, though I did not know it then, for the right hour, or stars, or some alignment of the two that I know not.

I was not prepared for the vision that greeted me in time. I could not say if it traveled to me, or simply coalesced out of the fog and mist that rolled through to the city and divide its mortal form from that which manifested itself to me then – the ghost of my father. I remembered the dread I felt when I saw the old king, only now it settled on me tenfold, and I could not move or speak. He wore not armour, but instead his loose robes of state cloaked his form, and he was not the doddering old thing that time and dabbling with forces beyond his ken had made him, but sharp and clear witted as I recall him from my youth. I could perceive other unnatural changes, like new limbs or other parts that moved with an alien will. He was made in part of living shadows, part of phosphorescent glamour, and seemed weighed down only by the chains of his office. Again the stars stretched out behind him. Their light pierced me like pins, and their power pulsed in my veins and warred with my terror until I fell before him.

He called me three times by name, his voice rising with each intonation, invoking my duty as his son, to stir my heart to revenge. I marveled at his words, though I knew what he must mean even as he pulled at his gown to show me a wound through his chest. It did not drip with blood, but a red mist seemed to ooze from it and mingle with the luminescent plasms that composed his visible form. My father was dead – murdered, though the sight could add no more to my shock. Hamlet is to blame, and by my father’s words he has lost his mind and stalks my sister still! Terrible brother to leave her, and terrible son!

He implored me to avenge him, and more beside. With this stroke, he claimed, years of planning to make Denmark great are undone. They – he meant the queen and King Hamlet as well as himself – had drawn on secret strengths unknown to the rulers of other nations, and through us had hoped to build an unstoppable legacy! He would have joined ours to the royal house, and received great blessings through such union by powerful forces we might have used to place ourselves at the head of Europe and of the whole growing world. Hamlet he now marks as a weak-minded murderer, unsuitable to this position. He orders the unthinkable – the throne instead must come to me, the care of my sister must fall to me, and I am to place myself at the mercy of the Queen, who will guide me in all I must come to know! I feel ill even to write it - with disgust, and sick yearning. I want it, I do, but I know it cannot be.

I begged him for mercy, but he would show me none - his soul had been paid, and cursed though he was, he would have his bargain delivered! I swore to avenge him if only he would release his children from this infernal pact, but he could not or would not, and implored me again to act, swearing I should have no peace until I have embraced the path laid before me.

Cursed fools! They know not what they have done to us! If Hamlet is mad, if I am mad, if my sister cannot resist the draw which has been set in her (in all of us), it is what they have made of us! It must be ended - they cannot have the world they seek to make. This restless spirit begs revenge, and I shall take it. But not for him. He begs for blood, and he shall have that too, but I will not stop. I will have no peace until I make it, for Hamlet, for the queen, the king, and for myself. My sister I must find some way to spare. I have failed her thus far, I cannot fail her further.

\- . - . - . - . - . - . - . - . - . - .

I have sharpened my blades. I have sought out other tools of assassination - if poison could do for the old king, it can do for the rest, and I have the worst I could find. My intent is fixed, and I feel something in me building on this fixation, a cry pulsing in me for death and chaos. I think that is all they ever wanted, whatever pacts were made. Such forces could never care for us, they crave only sacrifice.

I have heard whispers of my father’s death as I press north. He was well liked, and the mystery of his end is displeasing to the people. They say he was buried in an unmarked grave, with no rites to safeguard his soul – I am sure that rites were held, and sure I know who held them, though his soul is forfeit to other powers. I let them tell me less than I know - they rally to me from sympathy. I cannot tell them, or anyone, my true cause. If they will be my army, then so be it - I will wash Elsinore with blood. But I expect more subtle methods will be needed. I must keep my wits, and let them think no more than they might expect: an outraged son set on the path of vengeance. They can lead me where they will, my true purpose shall not be foiled.

\- . - . - . - . - . - . - . - . - . - .

I intercepted a letter from my sister today, stained with tears and full of half nonsensical ramblings. I fear for her. She spoke of ghosts. Has our father haunted her too? At the least she says nothing of Hamlet. To think of them together still fills me with unspeakable jealousies, and I cannot put out of my heart what my father said - that she should be mine, that he is unworthy. Sweet sister, to be sold so between unsuitable suitors! Would that I could put you beyond reach. I should have you sent away, perhaps to England, or some secret cloister where servants of God should care for you and keep you pure and safe. If I felt I could address the Christian God without blasphemy, I might pray for her.

\- . - . - . - . - . - . - . - . - . - .

Blood and blood and blood! Oh Elsinore, you call for it! You shall drown in it, as my sister in your streams. I came to you today, to play the part prescribed, all impassioned rage and dutiful vengeance! I let Claudius reveal himself to me through suggested plots, let him set me to his end and gave no hint of my own aims. Hamlet had gone, but now returns from England, and soon all will be at hand! But you take from me too early!

My sister is lost - lost before her mortal life was taken. Was it my father’s death? Was it Hamlet, or his culpability? Was I wrong to think myself weakened by my early exposure to the chaos from the void? Was this their plan, to plant a seed of madness and have it flower in us each? And what a blossom! She was beautiful, her lost mind forever innocent of all wickedness and evil. Though it broke my heart, I found this thought appealing, and her as well - the darkness in me hungers the more I feed it thoughts of death and carnage, but her madness fueled its most base appetites in unthinkable ways. I cannot still displace the images from my mind. I sicken myself. I must think her death a mercy - she is beyond me, she is safe, from me and all others. Tomorrow she will be buried, and soon my mortal remains might join her, though I hope her spirit meets a better fate than mine.

\- . - . - . - . - . - . - . - . - . - .

Tomorrow it is set - I can stand to wait no longer. Ophelia is placed in the bosom of the earth, and I hope the meagre rites she received will give her spirit some peace. I dreamed of her last night, dreamed of her drowning, floating in her gown surrounded by flowers, waiting for me.

I will kill Hamlet. I might have done so today, my fingers as tight around his throat as his around mine. We will go out this way together, I can sense it. I will see him ended, but it cannot be him alone. Gertrude will find some other, and Claudius has shown himself to possess an evil mind. Hamlet must hate him, and I am sure he must have cause. Perhaps this is all his doing, somehow. If I cannot kill him, I need but speak to the prince some fragment of what all I know, and he will do that work. That leaves only the queen. It can be done. The foolish king plots without her. She is distracted by the unravelling of her plans. I will see her fall. I will see all cleansed. I will be avenged, my father, my sister, my house, on those who tainted us. It is time to give way to the call of my blood.


End file.
